Up All Night

by Laura Silverman

  If I were as fast as Streamline, this wouldn’t be a problem.

  But I’m not. I’m only slightly above human fast. Actually, all of my metahuman powers are only slightly above human standards.

  Two more flights of stairs. Sixteen steps between me and the rooftop door. I can see it. An angry red EXIT sign glares at me in the cascade of shadows.

  Honestly, I wouldn’t be late if this city’s delinquents would respect the laws of proper criminal-activity hours. Why can’t they at least wait until after I’ve finished my Algebra II worksheets? At least until I’ve had an after-school snack.

  I’m starving. The mouthful of coppery blood and broken glass I swallowed after stopping that last rookie attempt at robbing a gas station isn’t exactly what I call dinner.

  Luckily, my body heals slightly above human too.

  One more flight. Eight stairs. My backpack smacks against my spine. My lungs stretch for more air. My open blue hoodie flaps like a cape behind me.

  The door’s handle is right there, but—

  I stop short.

  My hoodie. Damn it. Between evading the police and interviewers crowding up the gas station after the robbery and stopping by another gas station for the supplies I needed, I forgot to ditch my costume. Panting, I peer down. The artificial flame from the EXIT sign shines against my skintight black costume, the upper half exposed while the lower part is hidden behind a pair of loose joggers. The light beams against the midnight blue bird, wings outstretched, at the center of my chest, tinting it almost indigo.

  “Yeah, that’ll be hard to explain,” I say to no one.

  Quickly, I zip my hoodie all the way up, hiding the rest of my costume.

  I don’t have a choice about these powers or the responsibilities that come with them. At thirteen, I figured out puberty wasn’t the only thing going on with my body, and the rules were made very clear.

  Nana’s Number One Rule to Being a Hero: “Never tell them who you are.”

  I inhale deeply. This is my secret. One of many.

  Slowly, I nudge open the rooftop door with my shoulder and step into Tristan Jackson’s world and out of Raven’s cage.

  From a distance, I watch him for a second.

  He’s leaning on the small brick parapet surrounding the rooftop, observing the city below. To his left, the sun is shrinking, a smear of blood orange against a pink-stained sky. At the edges, purple is clawing its way through the clouds. His outline is softened by the sunset. In normal lighting, he’s all angles and hair. Now, he’s curves and a sloped spine and the red of his hoodie is a sharp, knife-like contrast to his brown skin.

  A messenger bag sits at his feet. He checks his phone, like he’s waiting.

  “Hey,” I say, folding a casual tone around my nervous voice. “Sorry I’m late.”

  He glances over his shoulder, smiling. “It’s cool.”

  It’s not, though. Arshdeep Bhatt is punctual to everything. Every class, every club meeting, every pep rally. He’s the kind of guy who never misses the previews for a movie. Not that I’ve been to the movies with Arash. We’ve never hung out, on purpose, outside of school grounds. Yes, we’ve orbited each other’s social thermosphere since elementary school. But Arash is slightly closer to the nerds and economically gifted kids while I stick to the outliers. The ones that aren’t into asking too many personal questions.

  The problem is, I like when Arash asks me questions.

  “I didn’t mean to—”

  Arash cuts me off with a laugh. “Seriously, Tris. It’s no biggie.” He turns back to the city, shoulders relaxing. “You’re doing me a favor, remember?”

  “Yeah,” I whisper.

  But that’s not true, either. I’m doing myself a favor by meeting him on this rooftop on a Friday night. I’m also quite possibly making the biggest mistake of my life.

  I stride over to him, resting my elbows on the parapet.

  Sunlight dies quietly beyond the horizon. The city rises in front of us, waking up like a restless lion. Dark towers blink with cracks of false lighting through office windows as custodians clean cubicles and boardrooms. Glittery signs sit like fallen stars across the grid, advertising shady bars and clubs we’re too young to enter. Cars jerk in stop-and-go traffic.

  Atlanta feels like an old, hooded sweatshirt. One size too small from constant washing; a hole in the sleeve; the drawstrings uneven. But it’s always comfortable and warm. Even with all the chaos, this city’s comfortable and warm.

  I wish I knew how to protect it better. I wish I was a few degrees better than slightly above average.

  “So.” Arash twists in my direction. “Did you bring the supplies?”

  I roll my eyes, smirking. Shrugging off my backpack, I unzip it and reveal the contents to him. Inside, four energy drink cans lie sideways on a mound of rainbow plastic bags. I bought five different kinds of sour candies since Arash didn’t specify which kinds he likes.

  Though, maybe I should know?

  We sit at the same lunch table every day. I’ve seen Arash pop handfuls of sour gummy worms in his mouth more than I’ve witnessed him eat normal food. But maybe knowing his favorite brand would be level-ten stalkerish.

  As if watching Arash eat isn’t creepy enough.

  But I’ve always noticed things about Arash. I’ve always noticed him.

  His tall, thick hair that never sits right, a few strands always falling into a curl against his forehead. The kind of brown eyes that look like there’s fireflies hidden behind them. His square jaw and angular cheeks are quite opposite from the softness of the rest of his body. He’s shorter than me, five-foot-eight-ish to my six-foot-one.

  He plucks a bag of sour hard candies from my backpack. “You’re a legend, Tris.”

  I nudge his shoulder. “What about you? Tell me you came through for me.”

  Arash leans back, grinning smugly. “You doubt my skills?”

  “I doubt everything about you, Arash.”

  “Wow,” he says, hand to his chest, faking a pained expression. “That hurts. Total foul.”

  I nudge him again, laughing.

  This is Arash inside the cafeteria, in the halls. He’s the type of person you naturally cling to. Make jokes with. Even on this rooftop, it feels so easy to be around him.

  Arash toes his messenger bag aside to reveal a giant plastic bag with two Styrofoam takeout cartons inside. I smell the heat and spice and euphoria before he opens the bag.

  “As promised.”

  The first takeout container is from my favorite wing spot two blocks from Juniper Road High School. The scent of buffalo hot chicken wings tickles my nostrils. I almost drool all over them.

  “It’s not that serious,” Arash deadpans.

  “Oh, my dear little Arash,” I say with wide eyes matching the stretch of my mouth. “It is. I almost never get to drop by that wing joint anymore.”

  Because I’m always on the run after school, I want to add.

  Arash shakes his head. “If you really want something spicy, you should try my dādī’s Chettinad chicken. You won’t survive.”

  “Is that a challenge?”

  The second takeout carton is the real gift. Inside, leftover basmati rice, still slightly warm, greets me. As part of our negotiations for tonight’s plan, I requested Arash bring me some of the glorious cuisine I catch him eating once or twice a week at our lunch table when he’s not demolishing a bag of Sour Patch Kids. The smell is always so intoxicating, and the basmati rice doesn’t disappoint. Its spicy aroma hits me like the glass bottle that robber smashed into my jaw at the gas station an hour ago. Except, this time, my stomach yearns for its flavor instead of clenching at the taste of my own blood.

  “Homecooked,” Arash says, proudly.

  “By you?” I ask.

  He nods, a shy curl to his lips. “My parents helped
, a little.”

  “Nice.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  I can’t wrap my mouth around a “thank you,” not with the way Arash’s eyes squint when he smiles at me. I nod, hoping it expresses my gratitude.

  We unpack our food and drink supply on the parapet. It’s wide enough, but the slightest clumsy movement—most likely by me since coordination isn’t a metahuman gift that runs in the family—could send everything crashing onto the road below.

  Arash pops his first energy drink, chugging half of it.

  I sip at mine. I know we’re going to need the caffeine rush to stay up all night for this.

  “So, this is an assignment for what class again?” I wave one hand around the rooftop while shoveling rice and chicken into my mouth with my other hand.

  “Journalism.”

  “Seems a bit deep for a class,” I say after swallowing. “Dangerous too.”

  Arash shrugs. “Not really? It’s not like he’s a supervillain or something.”

  “No,” I say, almost choking. Nothing super about me. “Just a regular, average hero.” In my peripheral, he’s watching me, head tilted. “He’s just . . .”

  “The Raven,” he says.

  “It’s just Raven,” I correct him with a bit too much bite.

  Arash stares at me.

  “No, seriously. Raven. One word.”

  “I think it’s interchangeable? Like the Batman. Or the Superman.”

  Actually, it’s not. Just Raven, unfortunately.

  Note to future teen vigilantes or potential superheroes—don’t choose your name while binge-watching movies made in the nineties after spending two weeks reading Edgar Allan Poe for an English essay.

  Don’t choose your alter ego after watching anything on Netflix.

  “Uh.” I pick at the rice. “I think it’s the Dark Knight. Or the Man of Steel. Not the other ones.”

  Arash bumps my shoulder. “Thank you for the geekumentary version.”

  I guzzle more energy drink.

  “But think about the grade I’ll get if we catch him and I get to interview him,” Arash adds excitedly.

  His reasons for asking me, instead of our other friends, to execute this plan seemed fairly basic. One, our other friends wouldn’t be caught dead in this neighborhood after the sun goes down. Two, everyone knows I’m a notorious night owl—though they don’t know it’s because of my extracurricular vigilante activities. Three, he knows I never turn down a challenge, even one as hazardous as this.

  But I should have turned down this challenge. I should have had at least the most basic common sense to not put myself closer to the guy trying to track me down. And yet, I couldn’t say no. I couldn’t refuse the chance to spend time with Arash outside of Juniper Road High. My chest hurts with the amount of ifs and rules and secrets inside.

  What if I just . . . told him?

  “Why here?” I ask instead.

  Arash rests his elbows between two energy drinks. He leans over the ledge but not too far. Only enough to get a proper view. “Because this is where he’s been spotted the most. Around this neighborhood.” He points in the direction of a structure almost opposite of us. “On the roof of that apartment building.”

  His finger moves to a smaller building nearby. “Around that pizza place. The dry cleaners next door.” He points to a tower with sporadically lit windows crawling up the side like jagged teeth. “Those offices. All around this area.”

  He’s right. I spend way too much time here.

  The apartment building is where my nana—formerly known as Streamline—lives.

  I eat pizza across the street. I watch over Mr. Chang’s dry-cleaner shop.

  The office building is where my dad used to work when he wasn’t being Asteroid.

  Before Mom—the recently retired Remedy—moved us out to the suburbs, I cut my teeth and shaped my bones in these streets.

  But I mostly come here to visit Nana. I know she’s lonely. Rule number one comes with consequences: No normal friends. No one outside of the small hero circle our family keeps can know who we are. And she refuses to leave the city behind.

  “Here. Check it out.”

  Arash passes his phone to me, swiping through YouTube videos. Each clip is of me, all black costume and blue raven on my chest, feathers spread like fingers around the eyes of my mask. Me, on rooftops, jumping from ledges. Me, a blur as I run into alleys.

  Me, being clumsy and careless and everything a sixteen-year-old rookie hero shouldn’t be. I tug the zipper of my hoodie higher.

  “You’ve put a lot of effort into this,” I say. “Also, stalker much?”

  Under the tinted lilac sky, Arash’s blush is visible against his light brown skin, spreading rapidly like watercolor paint against a blank canvas. “Okay, so I think Raven’s kind of boss.”

  A tiny surge of joy spreads through my throat at him using the correct name.

  “Kind of?”

  “A solid nine on the boss-level scale,” he offers.

  “Eh. I give him a hard five at best,” I tease.

  “He’s better than that. He has all these cool powers.”

  I try not to make a face.

  I’m only half as fast as Nana. I can leap a quarter of the height Dad can. Yeah, I heal quickly, but not as rapidly as Mom. I can’t fly or smash through brick walls. There’s no place for me in the Jackson hall of fame. Truthfully, I think I should just hang up my mask. Otherwise I might ruin my family’s legacy.

  “And he’s just . . .” Arash’s voice trails off into the gentle early March breeze.

  “He’s what?”

  Arash’s mouth puckers but he doesn’t reply.

  I want to know.

  Raven is awesome?

  Courageous?

  Cute?

  “Never mind,” Arash mumbles.

  Disappointment hits my chest like a fist, but I keep a poker face.

  “Well,” I say, looking around. “What do we do until he shows up? Besides wait and eat?”

  Arash grins. “Homework!”

  “What? Seriously? On a Friday night?”

  It’s not as if I’m that surprised. Arash is a great student. He maintains a superior grade point average while I try to stay awake in class. Mom’s been talking a lot about college recently. I want to ask her what vigilante has time for college coursework? But Dad did it. And Nana managed to get a nursing degree while being Streamline. They also had no social life.

  I’d like to have a community outside of other heroes. I want to go to college, play a sport, and go to parties. I want a boyfriend who doesn’t have to worry about if I’ll be home late—or if I’ll make it home at all.

  But I don’t know how to tell my family that. I wish I could talk about it with someone. With someone like Arash.

  I seal up the rice container to snack on later. The wings are already destroyed. “Okay,” I finally say. “But how are we gonna study in the dark?”

  Another smug grin shapes Arash’s mouth. “Let me show you.”

  We pack up the untouched energy drinks, leftover rice, and sour candies before Arash leads me to another side of the rooftop.

  A series of interconnecting steel poles creates a structure probably meant for hanging banners. Tangled around its metal bones are strings of colorful fairy lights. Maybe they were left over from the holidays. Maybe they’ve been here for years. I don’t know. But I like the way they hang two feet above my head, like a small galaxy of mini stars and planets lighting this side of the rooftop under the cloak of a heavy blue-black sky.

  Beneath the lights are two old lawn chairs and a wobbly iron table.

  In all my nights around here, I don’t think I’ve noticed this before.

  “Wow,” I say, my voice almost swallowed by another breeze. “Did you do this?”


  “I did,” confirms Arash as he drops one of those portable phone chargers onto the table. “I would’ve come over here first, but I wanted a clear view of the sunset.”

  “Genius.”

  “I prefer the title King, but Genius is acceptable.” Arash laughs, this full noise that hits a sharp note at the end. At school, he’s always laughing into his hands, trying to cover up the noise but out here, under an artificial galaxy and standing tall over a glowing city, Arash lets it loose. “Shall we get to work?”

  We still have a decent perspective of Nana’s apartment building and the pizza place. I can do my nightly surveillance from here. Not that Nana, even in her eighties, needs me to watch over her. She’s still faster and stronger than an average human in their prime years. But it’s part of the job—protecting people.

  It’s an adrenaline rush to save someone, a high that’s hard to come down from, but the rulebook doesn’t warn you of the repercussions when you fail to help them.

  A year ago, when I was still new to doing this solo, I fell asleep in an alley while studying. I had an exam the next morning I couldn’t afford to fail. Some guy decided that was the perfect time to carjack a Corvette from a nearby parking garage while I was napping. The police tailed him for five blocks before he lost control, jumping a curb and hitting pedestrians. One girl died.

  Carla Santos. She was a year younger than me. And she’ll never see another sunset because I dozed off.

  I push away the images of her face on the news that night with a shaky breath and then dump my backpack on the ground. Carefully, I recline into a chair. It doesn’t look sturdy, but it doesn’t collapse under my weight either. Arash has already unpacked his messenger bag, laptop on his knees. I snatch my barely cracked copy of The Great Gatsby from my backpack. No disrespect Mr. Fitzgerald, but I’m bored out of my mind every time I open this book.

  Why is this a classic? And what does it have to do with me, a sixteen-year-old Black teen in Atlanta?

  I heard schools in other districts are reading books like The Hate U Give. The “economically blessed schools,” as Nana calls them.